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A POEM 

RECITED BEFORE THE 

PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY 

OF 

HARVARD UNIVERSITY 

IN THE MEMORIAL HALL 

July ist, 1897 

BY , 

EDWARD WALDO EMERSON 



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CAMBRIDGE 

1897 
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COFTBIGHT, 1897, BY EDWARD W. EMBESON 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



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THE WINNING GAME 



The waning Century knows his knell is rung 
When thirty times the pendent moon has swung 
Around the planet, yet his untamed eye 
New wonders, triumphs, glories doth descry. 
Yea, were the moons but moments, his proud hope 
No less with Destiny again would cope. 
His armed eye hath pierced the human wall, 
Hath leaped o'er distance dizzy to appal 
Man's reeling senses. Now his eager ear 
Voices antipodal, ay, dead, would hear. 
That fatal hand hath with the lightning wrought ; 
Those feet, the roe outrun, would challenge thought 
That mind, o'er pain victorious, deal with death. 
Hark ! what is that he utters with full breath ? 
" I lift the curse. No more break ye the clods ; 
Made godlike by my gifts, be ye as gods ! 

For Man is no more a child 
His eager will to yield : 

No more shall the dreamer mild 

Prating thi'ough Earth's treasure-field 

Lead the foolish son of earth : 

Are gold and gramerye nothing worth ? 



4 THE WINNING GAME 

m 

" That old-time Wisdom by the Hebrew sung, 
That erring maiden, named in Grecian tongue 
Philosophy, no more shall lead astray. 
With Life to guide her on the one true way. 
For Life is rich and fertile, strong and brave, 
Beyond compare a glorious boon to have. 
Woo her, Son ; her sister well may bide ; 
Behold how I have dowered her for thy bride. 
The dumb and rugged Earth to her hath told 
The spells commanding fire and bread and gold. 
The heaving wastes of Ocean's uneared plain 
To her no more a steely glittering chain, 
For her the blue and blasting fire of heaven 
A speedier Iris for her mandates given. 
And mark the giant foemen of thy race, 
Grim, stubborn Matter, ancient Time and Space, 
Humbled and bound her bridal train to grace. 
Behold the tyrants of the days of yore. 
Tradition, Reverence, Worship, Ancient Lore, — 
All these discrowned shall hamper Life no more. 

" I have righted an ancient wrong, 

The mouldered bonds I have burst ; 
For Cunning and Might have been chained too long. 

And the last shall now be first. 
Would you wit of what I have done, 

And number my barriers broken ? 
On the new world shining under the sun 

Look forth for a sign and a token ! 



THE WINNING GAME 

" See king and priest and yoeman, 

The matron and the maid, — 
Following Fortune on her wheel 

They whirl through the sun and shade. 
Where is the reverent scholar, 

A thought for his rich reward ? 
Where the man of God with his chastening rod, 

And where is the haughty bard ? 

" Long may ye search for them : 

If ye find them, few will heed, 
For Earth's blind forces are the game 

Man follows — Power and Speed. 
For Speed from thieving Time shall snatch 

The hours reft from Man, 
And Power can all things overmatch. 

The kingdom comes to him who can. 

" Pale priests of the Ideal, 

Sit ye apart and dream. 
In the triumph-day of the Real 

He needs not things that seem. 
That brain the primal force shall find. 

Those feet, the way by man ne'er trod ; 
That armed eye and audacious mind 

Invade the temple of each god. 

" He has read his scroll in the rocks, 
He has read his doom in the sun. 
At the impossible he mocks. 



6 THE WINNING GAME 

He rends the veil and he scorns the locks 
Till his appointed day be done, 

And he shall abide his doom, 

"When he and his triumphs, swathed in mould, 
Hearsed in a planet dead and cold, 

Ride through the ages to their tomb." 

And a Voice answers, though no form is seen, — 
The voice of one strong, happy, and serene. 
Or soon, or late, that voice must still be heard ; 
Calm and secure she taketh up the word : 

" Over the marshes brown, 
Over the creeping river. 
There where he silent glides along 
Or joins with the breeze in rippling song, 
Wrestling with Father Ocean ever. 
On the boles of ancient trees 
Once the home of Dryades, 
Now green-swathed by the Naiades, 
Lies a labyrinthine span 
Iron-shod for ways of man. 

" There in the iron cavern's mouth, 
Reeking smoke and black with grime, 
By gleam of mail under the sun. 
By glowing eye when day is done 
See thy swart genii girt to run, 
Conquerors of Space and Time. 

" Sinew of steel and lungs of brass, 
Urged by the elemental flame, 



THE WINNING GAME 

Fed on the black rocks from the mine, 

The round Earth's juice for their cup of wine, 

Waiting the word to hurl the mass 

Of Man and Matter, of joy and shame. 

That like a meteor shall pass 

The wild and the haunts of toiling man. 

Thy mighty works, O Century, scan. 

Right proud thou art, and well may'st be. 

And yet perchance 't were well for thee 

The scene with other eyes to see. 

" Where from yon dusky cave 
Dark gleaming steel and dull red glow 
Thy fleet and fire-breath'd monsters show, 
Hark to that paean brave ! 
Is it they that sing and pant and feel ? 
Can life inform the cold grey steel ? 
In those black bulks can earthly fire 
Wake power and purpose and desire ? 
Ah no, a viewless power within. 
Old as the planet, yet new born, 
Making her round in God's great field, 
Her helping hand to Man doth yield 
And his poor engines doth not scorn. 

" See where, born of thin water and red flame. 

Yon nymph in lowly incarnation, 

Intense with glorious power in softest form. 

And singing high her strident song of joy. 

Comes rushing viewless from the cauldron's throat, 

And, at the touch of her cool sister Air, 



THE WINNING GAME 

For sweeter silence drops her ringing song 
And ere she parts into the upper void 
Doffs graciously her garb invisible, 
Caressing her dark Titan lovingly 
In Naiad form, that he and all may see. 
And with a kiss she melts into the blue. 
But ever in the blue she bides her time, 
Dons her grey mantle, sweeps down in the rain, 
In the still river seeks the haunts of man. 
Joins with her sister Fire, and for man's help 
Lends life unto his uncouth work again, 
Rounding one circle of her magic life. 

" Her viewless power withdrawn, that Titan bulk 
Appalling with a planet-rush but now. 
More helpless than the ocean-stranded hulk, 
Scares not the sparrow from the bough. 
That fleeting life for aye goes on. 
Old as the light, but young as the new day, 
No instant tarries when work is done — 
A lift — a gleam — and it is gone, 
Through universe and planet ranging. 
Form and home forever changing, 
Speeding joyous on its way, 
An instant glory in its passing seen, 
A leajD, a light, its mightier form between 
Illuminating, blessing, blasting, 
Sire and son and race outlasting. 
In birth, in growth, in act, in thought, in dream, 
In love, in light, in death's, or beauty's gleam. 



THE WINNING GAME 9 

" Strive this power to detain, 
Even in godlike human mould, 
All thy love and longing vain, 
Proteus-like it slips thy hold, 
From thy firm grasp elusive glides — 
But the wrought miracle abides. 

" But deem not, if perchance the power 
Stoop from the aether for an hour 
To speed the way and ease the lot 
Of prince in palace, clown in cot. 
That Speed and Comfort are the goal 
Can satisfy thy heaven-lent soul. 
Whither away ? what speed they then to do ? 
Look down upon that hurrying brood 
In yon fair city's ways, then tell me true 
Pursuers ? or pursued ? 

" Is it for greed and din and strife 

Thou wilt for Man from Time redeem 

More of the unguided life, 

Whirled like an insect down the stream ? 

Shall haughty Man hail for his chief and lord 

The busybody, of the god abhorred ? 

Nay, the triumph over Time 
He shall win who still would climb 
Above the turmoil of the mart 
A breathing-space to sit apart. 
Who from the deafening din his ear. 
From blinding dust his eye would clear. 
Shall justly weigh the near and far, 



10 THE WINNING GAME 

Nor let the mote eclipse the star. 

Him the near bauble shall not blind 

To the dread weight slow piling up behind, 

Nor shall he know the day of doom 

When the sure overpoise shall come, 

The fatal scale shall fall. 

Welcome to him shall ever be 

The guardians of his destiny, 

Clear-eyed Honor, Reverence, Shame, 

And elder gods without a name, 

Keepers of the sacred bounds 

That stay the Furies in their rounds." 



Gone is the time 
When wrath and guile in the wild Saurian strife 
O'er weaker wrecks to savage life 

Shall climb ; 
For in fair form from a blind monad come 
The soul of man hath found a home 
Sublime. 
And be thou sure 
The better shall endure ; 
Yet in life's struggle it shall be no sin 
To play the game to win — 
What is it for man to win ? 
Answer, ye crowding memories of this hall ! 
One stern and noble scene shall stand for all 
On Rappahannock's banks in fancy stand 
When chill December lowers o'er the land. 



THE WINNING GAME 11 

Oh, cold and grey the river-swirls 
Look to the columns marching down, 

And deep and dangerous it whirls 
Between them and the rebel town. 

And hark ! upon the long pontoons 

In broken step, for so 't is meet, 
Uncheered by brazen trumpet-tunes 

The multitudinous trampling feet. 

And now above the river banks 

Look where the gallant lines deploy. 

Ah, many a soldier in those ranks 

How few months since was deemed a boy ! 

The time is come ; and while the shell 
Hot from the batteries scream o'erhead, 

Up the bare slope bravely and well 
The long blue lines are swiftly led. 

Not wise in war, ah, youth is sure 

One valiant rush can gain the wall 
Whence grim battalions all secure 

Pour in thick rain the deadly ball. 

One valiant rush — and the blue line 

Withers before the fiery rain, 
Yet gather 'neath their country's sign, 

To charge again, — and yet again. 



12 THE WINNING GAME 

Though ruddy life still fills their veins, 
Though Hope and Love alike say Nay, 

One last, best privilege remains, 
Their desperate honor — to obey. 

Lit with swift gleams, the dead, white smoke 
Climbs 'gainst the dull December sky. 

Cold, silent, on the russet slope, — 
Yes, in their ranks, the blue-coats lie. 

In one brief hour the hero stood revealed ; 
Calm are the brows once bent upon the foe. 
For us the clay-cold lips forever sealed, 
Yet through the ages ringing clear and low 
An echo from an angel-guarded grave 
Comes : If I lose myself, myself I save. 

Ours is a day of peace ; the sleeping sword 

May vainly wait the stern, awakening word. 

Is ours a day of peace ? Ah, think again. 

The soldier's course was bright and brief and plain. 

Beneath his flag, his weapon in his hand, 

The foe before, he waited the command. 

Before the winnowing blast of war 

The chaff of life fled fast and far ; 

For in the forest, strange and murk and damp, 

Far from home and far from camp, 

Where on the lonely picket-line 

He prayed and waited for a sign, 

A boyish dream returned, and all was plain, 

Hig former life remote and dim and vain ; 



THE WINNING GAME 13 

Honor and duty shone in his clear eyes, 
Well worth a brief life's sacrifice. 



But we — our lives are far 

From serried ranks of war, 

Yet in the passing life 

Find ever-shifting strife 

Wherein no blue or grey shall show 

The loyal friend, the open foe. 

Where floats the star-wrought banner of our land ? 

No rallying-sign ? In scattered groups we stand 

Facing each new guerrilla band. 

Conspiring Greed, upon the helpless fed. 

Or Toil's brave sons by Villainy misled, 

Or idle fops, by wealth and wandering crazed, 

Restoring bounds our wiser fathers razed. 

The dust and clamor of the street 

Shut out the Pleiads' influence sweet, 

And for we see in many a lair 

A crouching form, shall we despair ? 

Laugh at Despair. What hath he ever done ? 

Hope, and Effort, son of Hope, 

These alone with Fate can cope, 

Alike by life or death have won. 

Void of conscience deem thou not 
Those who in their toiling lot 
Still pursue the things that seem. 
While the tribes shall rise and fall 
On the flower-embroidered ball, 
Hundreds toil for what shall perish, 
Yet above all love and cherish 



14 THE WINNING GAME 

Him who, forgotten and alone, 

Their shghted task for them hath done. 

The gods — speak they no more ? 
When unto thee at noon shall come 
Word from the captive in the mine 
That the broad sun hath ceased to shine 
And thou for his thy faith resign, 
Believe the oracles are dumb. 
The miracles forever come, 
And, oft unheeded, as of yore. 
The saints to-day stand at thy door. 

The seeming Real to dust may fall, 
What is most real, least seen of all 
Until the new-born eyes be given. 
Blind to the bound 'twixt earth and heaven. 

Then, Soul, forget not in thy day 
Of hurried toil, of eager play. 
To look on Life's astounding dower. 

The wealth that shall abide, 
The crowded splendor of the instant hour, 
The gods that walk beside. 




